Sometimes You Just Get Lucky
by nynine
Summary: Neal and Peter always have each other's backs.


**Triggers:** old age; deafness; hit-and-run

**Word Count: **1000-4999

**Summary: **Peter and Neal always have each other's backs.

**Betas: **Many, many thanks to **rabidchild67** and **pommery **for beta.

**Disclaimer**: White Collar and its characters are the property of Jeff Eastin and the USA Network. I won't make any money from this fan fiction.  
><strong>AN**: This fic is meant to amuse. Please blame anything that offends you on my la-la sense of what is amusing.

**Sometimes You Just Get Lucky**

Peter and Neal are sitting in rocking chairs on the wide, sun-dappled porch which surrounds their HappyHome. To Neal it seems they've been here way too long. Peter's eyes are closed, and Neal decides that he's asleep. He shoos a bee away from Peter's face. Peter swats Neal's hand.

"OW! That HURT!" Neal yelps. "I think you broke a blood vessel!"

Peter opens his eyes, startled. He looks at Neal. "Huh?"

"OW! That HURT!" Neal repeats. He examines Peter. "You had your eyes shut. How'd you do that, anyway?"

"Huh?"

"I said, 'How did you DO THAT?'"

The older man yawns and stretches, taking his time. Both of them begin idly rocking back and forth. "Not another damn fedora, I hope."

Neal stares at him. Peter stares amiably back. Peter really didn't understand him, Neal decides.

"Why not? FEDORAS make me LOOK SEXY."

"Yeah, well, God knows you can use all the help you ca—"

"SEXIER THAN I ALREADY DO!"

"You remember what I said that first day you went to work with me? When you came down the stairs at June's?"

"No. Absolutely not."

"Oh, you do, too!"

"Some things are better left unsaid again."

"Humf."

"Anyway, you weren't talking about just the hat. You meant the overall fashion statement, and well, I'm sorry, you were just wrong."

Peter sniffs loudly. He's either miffed or pretending to be. It's just a way of killing time, all of this is, the whole rigmarole, as Neal's grandma would have called it; all of this is. Neal wishes he didn't think so often about what it is a way of killing time until.

"What color?"

"What color what?"

"Your new fedora."

"Oh. Well . . . the big color for men, fall and winter, will be maroon—I said MAROON, Peter—"

"A brand-new twenty-dollar bill says you slip up and say it sometime today."

"All right, but it has to be used in the context in which it was originally spoken."

Peter looks at him questioningly.

"CONTEXT."

Peter smirks. Neal looks away from him, annoyed.

"Oh, stop pouting, Caffrey ."

"I'm not pouting." Neal thinks that after lunch he's going to catch the van to the mall, and when he gets there he's going to buy a nice big bottle of whiskey. He would drive, but his Ferrari is in the shop. Jennifer sideswiped it two days ago when she came back from a martini lunch with some of the girls. If they guys at the shop can't match the paint, he plans to key her BMW the next time it returns to the parking lot. After all, black is black; she can get her car repainted easily enough. It's not such an easy proposition with Island Grenadine.

He should probably house the Ferrari in the garage in his apartment building. The trouble is that it isn't much safer there. Nowadays Neal spends about as much time as a resident of HappyHome as he does at his own place, anyway, so it's a tossup. Anyway, Peter would miss riding in it.

"Well, you rock like you're pouting." Exasperated, Neal raises his hands. _All right, okay, whatever._ _Let's skip it._

"What time is it?"

Peter thinks, _That's Neal for you._ He depends on Peter for everything. When he wakes up in the morning, he expects Peter to tell him what day of the week it is, the date, what the weather's like, what's on the Breakfast Buffet, which of their groups they lost someone from overnight (for this Peter has to consult the Xeroxed lists on the bulletin board), where Neal left his glasses, and what time it is. He can't be bothered to wear a watch or look at his phone. Not famed conman and champion free-style flirt Neal Caffrey.

Unbelievable.

On top of all that, Neal acts like a spoiled brat half the time, pouting if he doesn't get his way. Peter might worry that Neal's in his second childhood, but he suspects that his friend never left the first one.

"9:53."

"Thanks."

There's not much going on, just a few old people walking around on the front lawn. Bored, Neal begins to fidget.

"Can't you be still?" Peter snaps.

"I am being still."

"No, you're not."

"Am too."

"Are not."

"Am."

"Aren't! You fidget constantly. It's embarrassing. Everybody is going to think of you as that skinny old lecher with the baby-blue eyes who wears tailored sweats and squirms around in his rocking chair as if—"

Neal grins, delighted. He crosses his legs at the knee and stretches out his foot. "Aw, Peter! You're perpetuating the legend!"

Peter doesn't retaliate with "perpetrating, you mean," so Neal knows Peter didn't understand what he said. Instead, Peter says, "Be still. Just_ stop _it!You're driving me _nuts!_"

"Short trip."

Peter's eyes narrow. "Say that again?"

"I said, GET A GRIP!"

Peter doubts it, but he lets it go. "If you have to move around, why don't you go do something useful?"

"Am I allowed to flirt while I'm doing it?"

"Huh?"

"FLIRT."

"Not me, buddy. You own the franchise."

"All right, look. I'm going to make a coffee run. If Bambi is awake I may flirt with her awhile. Stay here till I come back."

"Thumb tack? What for? You getting ready to take another polygraph? "

Neal rolls his eyes. "It wasn't a polygraph," he says.

"Stop muttering."

"Mutter if I want to," he mutters. He gets up, goes inside, and comes back in a few minutes with two cups of coffee and a small tray. He sets the tray on Peter's lap and hands him his coffee. "Careful, it's hot. You got it?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." He blows on it.

"That doesn't do any good."

"I'm helping it breathe. Did you find Bambi?"

"No. Jennifer says she isn't here anymore." It's a euphemism understood by every elderly person who lives here. It means he won't ever see Bambi again, not unless he goes to her funeral. She was in Peter and Neal's Philosophical Encounter Group. Only Peter, Neal, and Shorty Stahl are left. Neal wonders idly if they could find a couple of other guys and change it to a Poker Renaissance Group.

Peter makes a neutral-sounding noise. Neal gets back up to give him a couple of paper napkins. "If you like, we can go in together and get that baby rose like we got for Sally."

"Sure, that'll be fine."

Neal phones in the order to the greenhouse he most often buys from.

"Thanks. It must be recent."

"Yeah. After breakfast, Jennifer said."

For a while they sit and rock quietly. Neal gets a far-away look in his eyes. He smiles at some old memory.

The smile soon becomes wistful. He looks at Peter as if he wants to say something, backs out, decides to say it after all.

"Peter?"

"Unh?"

"I was just thinking about the time that nurse gave me the shot in that clinic. You remember, the guy with the kidney."

"Um."

"I told you I trust you. Remember that?"

"Unh."

"I—Every time you've hinted that you can rely on me maybe even just a little bit, I've had to pry it out of you. You never once just up and told me you trust me."

"Why should I? You aren't dusty."

"Peter, _please._ This is important to me. TRUST. Do you TRUST ME?"

"Nobody's trying to rush you. We have all day."

Neal draws a deep breath. "TRUST! YOU! ME!"

"You've been watching too many Tarzan movies."

Neal gives up. He wishes that Peter weren't so deaf. He's tried talking to Peter about getting help, but nothing he's said seems to work. Worse, Peter gets mad at him and stays that way for hours at a time, and that's hard for Neal to take.

Then he has an idea. Maybe Peter will pay attention to him if Neal can show that not being able to hear could actually cost him his life.

Neal can picture it clearly: Peter has been struck by a speeding car as he crosses the street. (_He_ _didn't hear the car coming. Of course he didn't, he's deaf_.) He lies there in the middle of the intersection, arms and legs and back and stuff all messed up and maybe broken. (There isn't any blood, though. He's glad of that.) When the ambulance gets there, a couple of guys in scrubs hop out. One of them hunkers down by Peter, who is moaning in pain. He asks Peter about his insurance. Peter misunderstands. "Have 'zmuch . . . endurance . . . as the next . . . guy . . . but . . . 'm hurt bad."

Neal is there beside him. "Neal? 'M . . . hurt bad . . . don't . . . think . . . 'm gonna make it . . . this time."

"Please, Peter, hang on! Don't do this, please don't die!" He presses Peter's hand to his lips. It doesn't seem to be broken. Maybe there's hope yet.

The ambulance guy doesn't think so. He has been taking Peter's vitals. He shakes his head. To Peter he says, "Got any last words, fella?"

Peter looks soulfully into Neal's eyes, which in real time have filled with tears as he sits in his rocker, imagining. He whispers, "I trust you, buddy." Then he dies. (Neal doesn't picture that last part. Knowing that Peter is dead is bad enough; he doesn't need the details.)

Imaginary Neal is coming unglued. The ambulance guys make him stand back as they put Peter's body on a stretcher and lift it into the back of the ambulance. The ambulance peels out, hurrying to rescue somebody else, leaving Neal surrounded by people he doesn't know and never will.

He doesn't like that picture, not at all, but it makes up his mind for him. He won't—he _can't_—tell Peter he has to get hearing aids so he won't have to moan himself to death in the middle of an intersection. But he has to do _something_. Peter doesn't have anyone else to help with things like this now that El isn't here anymore. It's Neal's main reason for being in this place when he could be in Florence or Paris or—well. He is here for Peter. He wants to be.

He just really, really wishes Peter weren't so deaf.

Neal has always had the impression that hearing loss is stable, unchanging unless a person gets help or it gets worse on its own. Now he is confused, because sometimes Peter seems to hear a lot better than at other times. During the really bad times, he can't hear much of anything, and it's hard to say which of them is more frustrated by it. It's as if the man who has been Neal's friend and co-worker for decades is suddenly trapped inside an invisible box, one that keeps every sound outside. It isolates them one from the other.

At those times Peter is definitely—deaf.

Every time Neal has tried to talk Peter into getting his hearing checked, maybe getting hearing aids, Peter has gone off in a huff. It's as if Neal has offended him, but Neal hasn't been able to figure out exactly what's going on. Does he think Neal should mind his own business? Does he resent the reminder that he's getting older all the time, that his senses are failing? Neal doesn't like to think it, but he has even heard of old people who unconsciously want to stay deaf so they don't have to interact with the people around them if they aren't in the mood.

He pushes that thought away. No, Peter isn't like that.

Maybe it's a practical thing, a matter of being intimidated because he doesn't know where to go, who to see. Of course, he could call—

Only he can't.

Neal lets his head fall to the back of the rocker, astounded by his own stupidity. Sure, Peter can _call_, but he can't _hear. _He always carries a phone, but says it is just for calling 911 in case there is an accident. He's too damn proud to ask for help, or maybe he thinks it's just too much of a hassle.

Neal's thoughts fly. The more he thinks, the worse he feels. Without realizing it, he has been serving as Peter's enabler, interpreter, _handler_. He has appointed himself the one to speak to the taxi driver; to give the orders at meals; to listen to the doctor or the nurse; to speak clearly and distinctly a few key words into Peter's ear when they socialize, so that Peter will know who everybody is and can keep up with the flow of the conversation. He always introduces Peter along with himself. He even started reading aloud a playbill at the Old Theater Hall one afternoon last week before Peter frostily interrupted, "I can _read_, Neal."

Neal doesn't like feeling this way. He gets up, collects Peter's cup, napkins, and tray, adds them to his own stuff, and goes inside. Peter is dozing again.

Back in his room, Neal taps out the combination to his desk and takes his Mite out of the top drawer. He hates trying to use his phone to search the web; everything is just too small. It isn't a problem with vision, of course. It's simply a matter of personal preference.

He searches, then scans a couple of relevant articles. As he thought, the first step is to contact Peter's regular physician. He phones Dr. Gray's office and asks for Jill, one of the doctor's RNs and also a Norse goddess whose hair is the truest blonde Neal has ever seen. Whenever he stands facing her, he is at eye-level with the little hollow in her throat. The view from there is a little bit daunting.

When Neal identifies himself, she gives a womanly trill of delight and immediately puts him on hold. _Glad that didn't happen a lot when I was young, _he thinks. _I could have been permanently scarred. _He doodles idly, then sketches a circular cat sleeping on a spill of satin.

Jill returns. She advises him to make an appointment for Peter with Rock Creek Ear, Nose, and Throat Associates, located a couple of miles north of where he and Peter live. "Dr. Gray saw Peter just last month for a physical, so there's no need for him to come here first. And Neal?"

"Yes?"

"I get off every day at five. Or was all that talk about dinner just something to keep my spirits up?"

"I'm goin' to surprise you one day, Jilly dear. It's a promise."

Neal finds the Rock Creek Associates homepage and notes the physicians listed. Dr. Franklin Brannon specializes in treating the elderly. So does Dr. Kitsy Moore, who looks young enough to still be in Girl Scouts, and about six others. An eeny-meeny favors Dr. Linda Davis. Neal copies the information he needs. On a separate screen, he writes a note to Peter. He lays a paper pad and a pen beside the Mite and locks the desk again.

Neal gets back to the porch just in time to go back inside with Peter for the Lunch Buffet, which begins serving at 11:00. This, they know, will be heavy on salads and pressed cold meats. At dinner the unconsumed fellows of the greens and meats will be joined by various breads, and familiar-tasting sandwiches will result, the sweet salads doubling as dessert this time around. A while back Neal balked at eating what amounted to the same meal twice in a row, so now he and Peter eat dinner out or Neal phones in a take-out order.

After lunch and an hour of television, Peter turns toward the porch again. Any other time Neal might groan, but this suits his plans well. He tags Peter's arm and says, "I'll be out in a minute."

Back in his room, he collects the Mite and the note pad. On his way outside, he almost collides with a woman who steps briskly out of an office just ahead of him. He leans against the wall, suddenly dizzy. He prays Peter won't see her. She's a little taller than El was, and not as rounded, and she wears her hair differently, but still—

Peter's eyes are riveted to the woman as she crosses to the steps. She's wearing a purple shift, and she has long, dark hair. He stops breathing.

He knows she isn't El, but oh, how he wishes she were!

Neal looks at him as he steps past. He wants to get Peter's attention. Making as much noise as he can, he lifts his rocking chair and sets it back down at a right angle to Peter's. If they were cars, Neal would be about to cave in Peter's passenger door.

It works. Peter eyes him warily.

Wordlessly, Neal settles himself and lays the Mite and the notepad in his lap.

The young woman is standing by her car. She is rummaging in her purse, looking for her keys. Peter hopes she left them inside somewhere, so she'll have to pass him again as she goes back in to look for them.

It isn't meant to be. She unlocks the door and gets in, leaving the door open as she fiddles with her seatbelt and adjusts the rearview mirror. _Somebody ought to tell her that's a dangerous habit,_ he thinks. She backs out of the parking space and leaves. He wonders if he will ever see her again.

Neal watched her leave, too, but it's clear he doesn't want to talk about her. "Whatcha got?" Peter asks.

Neal opens the Mite and hands it to Peter. In his nervousness, he selects the wrong frame; instead of his typed note, it's the ENT Associates site.

"My ears, nose, and throat aren't sick, Neal."

Neal snatches the device back. He opens the correct frame and hands the Mite back to Peter. "You're having problems hearing. You need to get your ears checked."

Peter takes it, reads. He nods. "Okay."

Neal is so astonished that for a moment he feels dizzy, as if he might pass out. He realizes that his mouth has dropped open and snaps it shut before Peter sees.

He holds up a finger, and Peter waits while he types. "The first step is to make an appointment with an ENT specialist . Jill—Dr. Gray's nurse— suggested one of the doctors from the place you saw the picture of just now. It's a couple of miles from here. If you want me to, I'll schedule an appointment for you with one of those doctors today."

Peter takes the Mite, reads what Neal has written, and blinks some.

"Neal?"

"Yeah?"

Thinking about El, seeing someone who looked so much like her, has left him emotional. _I'm all alone now. If it weren't for Neal—_

"Thanks. Thank you. For caring about me."

Neal looks down, embarrassed. "You've helped me out a time or two."

"Well . . . listen. I'm not good at saying things, you know that. But I need to tell you this." He pauses. "Of all the people I know, you're the only one I really trust."

Peter knows that Neal hears him, because his eyes soften and the corners of his mouth tilt up. Then he looks strangely preoccupied. He looks as if somebody put him on pause.

Peter has seen enough people pass out to recognize that look. He has even seen it on Neal's face a time or two. He jumps to his feet, kicking his chair backward and yelling, "NURSE!" as he moves. He catches Neal before he hits the floor. He's breathing. _Thank God_. His pulse is okay. _Good. _

_So what's wrong? _

"Neal? _Neal? NEAL!" _

Word of the excitement is spreading. Three or four old people come to look, Jennifer among them. "Is he DAY-UD?" she drawls. Peter ignores her.

A nurse is here, Cass, the one he likes best. "What happened, Peter?" she asks, going down on one knee beside Neal. Her hand rests briefly on his forehead before she applies a temp dot and then slips a blood pressure cuff onto his arm.

"We were just sitting here. He started to fall out of his chair. I guess he passed out."

Cass smiles at him. "Nah, I think he's faking." She listens with her stethoscope to get Neal's blood pressure, but isn't successful. She deflates the cuff and tries again. She smiles at Peter reassuringly.

On the fourth try, she gets the blood pressure figures. She writes them down, along with his temperature, takes out her phone and talks into it, then drops it back into her pocket and turns to Peter.

"Well, we gave him his chance, and he didn't take it. They'll let you ride to the hospital with him if you want to."

Neal Caffrey speaks only ten words during the remainder of that day. He looks up at Peter as the ambulance races toward the hospital. His eyes are slightly crossed. "Don' you dare tell me I look like a cartoon," he says.

Neal rouses when his doctor comes into the room the next morning. Peter is sitting by the side of his bed, looking nervous. The doctor clears his throat and smiles, something that Neal has never seen him do before.

"While you were still working, eating pizza every other meal, drinking all that coffee, you needed something mild to lower your blood pressure," he says. "But when you pass out with a reading so low that the nurse has trouble determining that you aren't dead, something needs changing. You seem to be eating more sensibly, resting well, and exercising properly. I want you to stop taking your blood pressure pills, and try drinking two or three cups of coffee daily in addition to what you already consume."

"Oh," says Neal. Peter looks rapidly back and forth between him and the doctor, who smiles at Peter reassuringly. "So I'm not dying?"

The doctor shrugs apologetically. "Sometimes you just get lucky," he says.


End file.
